


Goodnight Kiss

by EntreNous



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Developing Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Pretty Woman References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-26
Updated: 2005-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As long as their lips were nipping and pressing and crushing together, neither of them could say anything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight Kiss

Kissing was supposed to be more intimate than anything else. 

Xander was pretty sure he remembered hearing that in _Pretty Woman_. Willow had dragged him to see that flick in the theaters on its opening weekend, selling him on the alleged funny parts instead of revealing that they were basically going to see a Cinderella-esque date movie. Still, Cinderella in thigh-high boots had been exciting and new, and Willow had sprung for the concession stand yumminess. 

He’d spent half of the movie petting Willow’s hair affectionately and the other half twitching away when she leaned in too close to him, in case she thought he was going to kiss her in that romantic _I like you like *that*_ type of way. Because Willow, nice and soft and fun to cuddle with, but not someone he wanted to get touch from -- at least, not back then. He had kept telling himself that just because they were _at_ a date movie didn’t mean that it had to _be_ a date.

So he didn’t remember a whole lot about the movie, what with his deft counter-moves to ward off potential lip-locks (at one point, when Willow had been especially creative in placing herself in his mouth range, he’d knocked the coke they were sharing right into the popcorn). But he really remembered the part where Julia Roberts’ character said that she couldn’t kiss the millionaire guy who bought her for a week, because she didn’t kiss her clients. It was too involved, she told him, made it weirder than just getting paid for having sex. 

At the time Xander thought she was sort of insane, especially considering that it seemed like if he wanted to get to the _really_ good stuff, girls expected him to start with the kissing. Kissing was the part you had to get out of the way, just the prelims in the fast-paced series of challenges that all led to the ultimate victory of getting laid. 

But now, after high school and all the damage he knew that kisses could do, being wary of that face-to-face simple touch made all kinds of sense. From his point of view, kissing and serious stuff did seem to go hand in hand. After all, how much had he and Faith kissed after the initial _oh god, she’s really going to let me do this_ opener that quickly led to the main act? Afterwards he’d been leaning in to kiss her when she gathered up his clothes and shown him out the motel room door.

He’d figured out eventually that the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold from the movie had the part about kissing right on target. Sure enough, when kissing was a regular feature, talks and negotiations and relationships were never far behind. That had been how everything got super-serious with Cordy, when they’d moved from stolen kisses on this-won’t-happen-again level to regular, expected, in-public couple-y kissing.

From that alone, he should have known what he was getting into when he and Anya moved from a spontaneous one-night tussle on the fold-out bed to pre-arranged movie-nights on that same piece of furniture in its more demure couch form. Now the dating movies did mean that they were on dates, and afterwards he had to keep his eyes wide and earnest and try not to yawn through the discussions about whether she was his girlfriend or not.

So Julia Roberts had it right, he thought. Straight-out sex was straightforward. It was with the kissing that everything got involved and confusing and intimate. 

It was a good, tested theory, as long as he skipped over the part where believing it meant he was following the life-philosophy espoused by a hooker wearing shiny vinyl boots. 

But then his and not-Julia’s position on kissing had been shot to hell by another type of kissing position. More specifically, the type of kissing position Xander found himself in a lot these days: post-patrol, back up against the crypt, pinned in place point for point by a very horny vampire. 

Like at that moment, for instance.

Spike’s hands were clenching and releasing his shoulders in pace with the way their lips were moving. When they kissed slowly, a brush of lips back and forth, little flicks of tongue, Spike’s fingers would knead at his upper arms with cat-paw presses. When they kissed harder, Spike’s tongue thrusting in and out of Xander’s mouth as though that was the pace Spike would set if he were _in_ Xander, Spike’s fingers gripped his back so hard that Xander’s moan was half-arousal, half-pain. 

And he was hard, oh god was he hard, especially with Spike holding him against the crypt like he wasn’t about to let Xander move, not to mention Spike’s hips twisting and pressing against Xander’s groin in the best kind of way. 

To top it off, any time Xander thought he’d settled into a pattern or a rhythm, thought that it couldn’t get any better or different, the gears would shift and it would be new all over again. It was like thinking he’d tried all the flavors of ice cream and then finding the limited edition chocolate, like walking into an area he knew like the back of his hand and stumbling on a hidden passageway. New tastes that he’d never considered; unexpected and slightly freaksome dark back alleys: all of it opened up to him by one growling and insistent vampire who was again making Xander’s lips part and his body jerk forward helplessly. 

Spike kept it moving, shifting them from soft and teasing to hard and demanding, from tongues sliding to teeth biting, from quiet murmurs to harsh breaths. All of it up and down and around and back again, making Xander whimper against that skillful mouth, saying with parted lips and helpless touches that he’d go anywhere Spike wanted to take him. 

But here was where that other position on kissing got all out of whack.

It was supposed to be intimate, supposed to mean that they were involved, kissing like this, with Spike growling in between the slip and slide of their lips and Xander gasping for quick little breaths whenever Spike gave him enough room to snatch in air. More intimate than if Xander had been on his knees in front of Spike, and didn’t that just make his dick jump in his pants when he pictured it, even though they’d never done it before? 

But this -- they -- none of this was _about_ being involved. They weren’t having sex, at least not the kind that Xander knew about, with clothes coming off and body parts connecting. And they sure as hell weren’t having snuggles or sappy looks. They weren’t in love or in like or even in toleration mode. 

What it was about was another too-late night of the two of them on patrol, both of them tramping along silent and sullen when they weren’t snapping at each other. About Spike pushing him out of the way summarily when they ran into a clutch of vampires, not even noticing when Xander had ended up falling into a pile of dirt. About Xander coughing and huffing indignantly while Spike dispatched the vamps one by one, shouting gleefully after every slay. It was about Xander brushing himself off, annoyed and awkward, when Spike whirred around, dust of his own kind still settling onto the leather of his coat, and _seeing_ Xander suddenly, as though Xander had just shown up when really he’d been there all along.

It was about Spike charging towards him, purposeful stalking strides that seemed like strutting dialed up to eleven, about Spike not giving Xander a chance to say yes, or no, or hey, I told you last time that this was _not_ happening again. 

Because as long as their lips were nipping and pressing and crushing together, neither of them could say anything. Not when Spike moved one hand to clutch Xander’s hip and the other to stroke at Xander’s neck. Not when Xander pulled Spike as close as he possibly could. Not while they traded panting breaths as they sucked and shivered and finally shuddered together in the cold darkness. 

No, it was never about them talking. Not even when their lips were finally parted. And not when they got all the way back to Xander’s apartment, where Spike always left him at the door without so much as a goodnight kiss.


End file.
